From a distance, a street kid appears like any other bum: dirty clothes, matted hair, a rucksack with their few possessions. But as you approach, and probably only moments before the proprietary blend of questions: “Spare a dollar?”, “Got a cig?”, “Can I have your leftovers?”, you may notice straight teeth, a fair complexion, Doc Martins, and other relics of the street kid’s former suburban self. Perhaps even a MacBook is stuffed in his backpack—because how else can he update his “Livn Phree” blog?

Before you can muster a “fuck off”, he’s walking next to you telling a fabricated sob story, or if you’re especially unlucky, he’s already begun playing a tune on his guitar. You cross the street, but–son of a bitch–he’s right behind you bellowing Bob Marley as his blonde dreadlocks flop around like dried turds in a windstorm. When he’s finished spouting his aural diarrhea, you can expect to owe him at least a dollar, because, “I gotta live, man.” So go home, shit head.

The street kid didn’t earn his homelessness through psychosis, poor financial decisions or a respectable drug addiction. He simply packed his bags and hit the cul-de-sac following an argument with his parents about his “lifestyle” or some other First World non-problem. “I don’t need any of this stuff, mom.” Now he’s out to prove something, though I’m not sure what and I doubt he does either. Nothing will keep him from his goal, whatever that may be. Nothing. Except maybe winter, lack of food and shelter, or the realization that being homeless is fucking terrible.

Provided he doesn’t get shanked, or raped and murdered, the street kid will eventually retreat to his parents tudor outside the city. He’ll curl into his bed and reflect on his spectacularly useless existence, one so void of meaning, a hippie would even call him a lazy low-life.